


Can't Pin Me Down

by shaywolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale - Freeform, M/M, Oops, Stiles Stilinksi - Freeform, Zombie Apocalypse, i also somehow managed to include clintasha, i use the terms from the walking dead, sterek, stiles is a semi-jerk, twd!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:55:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaywolf/pseuds/shaywolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up during a zombie apocalypse tends to quickly shape who you will become as a person. It also solidifies your instincts to survive and protect those nearest you. Some are born to do so, and others are forced into the act without necessarily realizing it.<br/>Or, the one where Derek has no control over his feelings and Stiles is the jerk pulling the strings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for way too long, but I was always happy with the outcome of chapter 1 so here it is! Please leave your thoughts of it in the comments, i.e. some improvements I could make, appreciation, etc. All is welcome!  
> *The violence that I warned about is coming in future chapters.  
> ** Title from Can't Pin Me Down by Marina and the Diamonds.  
> Disclaimer: I've never been to Chicago so there might be a couple of inconsistencies here and there. Google has been my only ressource, so let's hope it knows what it's talking about.

Was it crazy to smile while running for your life?

Stiles thought not, proved his point as he ran furiously, dodging large air vents and chimneys with agility. The grunts and wails coming from behind did nothing to his concentration, only making him throw almost mirthful glances back at his four pursuers.

_Man, were they ever slow._

He spotted his destination a few buildings over, so he diverted his course to lose them, picking up speed as if he had been jogging beforehand. They kept their chase, their cries growing louder and more desperate. This seemed to make them faster, and Stiles only panicked for a second.

A virtual map seemed to be drawn behind his brown eyes, following paths he’d been over hundreds of times. He jumped over the small gap between two adjacent buildings, using the heavy bag in his hands as a balance, then braced his legs with another jump, this one to a lower building. He felt the slight jolt of pain spring up through his legs, but one glance up at the hesitating chasers urged him to take advantage of the distance he could create.

His course circled the block around the building he was trying to get to. Down a fire escape he went, long and steep, taking it two steps at a time or jumping down flights altogether. Reaching the street, Stiles kept to the shadows, slipping in through the no longer hinged doors of a busted up building, puffing short breaths as he ran up the stairs. Some were missing, and he nearly fell through a panel which split under his weight. He could no longer here anyone behind him, but his relief didn't keep him from slowing down.

Stiles counted sixteen endless floors before bursting through the door and running across a room of smashed walls and broken desks, coming to an abrupt halt at the window. Or the whole where a window had once been. From where he stood, Stiles could just see into the rather small, empty room he had to get to. The only problem was the sixteen-story drop in between.

This jump was one he’d never done, and he had to clear his throat multiple times to ignore the possibility of missing it. The trajectory was downwards, about a two meter arc from where he calculated, wringing his hands and throwing his head from side to side distractedly. The ledge on the opposing windowsill was tiny, barely enough room for him to fit the length of his foot.

 _Lean where you want to go_ , he reminded himself, _you can make it, just like you've made it on so many other accounts._

Deep breath, firm grip on his bag, mind set.

One jump, that was all it took to get back to safety, although death was a slight technicality between where he was and where he wanted to go.

Taking three large steps back, Stiles planted his feet steadily on the ground and, counting down from three, he sprinted forward, his last step pushing off the edge of the building.

The mad grin vanished from his lips as he held his breath.

The brick wall seemed closer than he had predicted, body landing too heavily on the sill. He grunted, eyes wide as he realized there was no time to reach out and grab hold of something firm. His left foot slipped from the edge, and his heart almost stopped as his body pulled him back, further away from safety, arms flailing, hand unwilling to let go of the bag he had tried so hard to find.

The drop was a long one, at least 200 ft, and there would be no luck for him after this fall.

The tip of his toes just about left the platform when a hand grabbed hold of his collar, yanking his body through the open window with a strong tug.

Feet landing with a thud, heart pounding in his chest, breath coming out in short puffs, Stiles still found the energy to speak.

"And here he is," he wheezed through struggling breaths, "Everyone's favourite hero has come to the rescue once again."

Although he refused to let it show, he was grateful for Derek's impeccable timing, but the snide remark couldn't be stopped as it slipped past his lips. He wasn't really one to say thank you.

"What were you thinking?" Derek said through gritted teeth to keep his voice low. The veins in his neck almost burst through his skin.

"Just running some errands, like I was told to do.”

Derek pushed past him to look out the window, shaking his head because Stiles, you fucking idiot. He scanned the street below and the surrounding rooftops, making sure that none of the walkers had followed the sound and scent to this part. It would be one thing losing Stiles; it was another to lure them to all the others.

He shut the window and bolted it, a procedure he'd learned to never, ever, forget.

"I got loads of bullets, gun powder... Some non-perishable foods," Stiles muttered as he swung  the heavy black material bag idly at his side, letting it weigh down on his tired arm.

Derek gave a small sound of acknowledgement, keeping his attention on the locking mechanism, just in case he'd somehow not shut it right.

Biting his lip angrily, Stiles raised his voice, "Are you serious? That's all I get? I risked my fucking life for everyone and all I get is 'Mm'?"

Derek spun around, eyes dark and face stern.

"Keep your voice down, they could still hear us out here."

At that Stiles threw his head back, a sick grin gracing his lips.

"Oh, yeah? This is loud for you? Well I guess they probably heard you moaning my name in the shower last night like it was the only thing you knew! Because you sure as Hell weren't holding back."

Exaggeration was key when Stiles aimed to get to someone, jabbing at sore subjects or insecurities because he was a jerk. A fully acclaimed jerk who by no means had a smidgen of a heart. It had only been by accident that he’d walked by the showers at a late hour of the night, although it hadn't been the first time.

Something grey seemed to flash over Derek's features like the ghost of a presence deep down inside of him. For only the briefest of moments. Then his face turned dark again, jaw set so tight his teeth could break with the smallest added amount of pressure.

He slipped back through the open metal door across the room, barely checking if Stiles had followed inside before slamming and locking it, turning the large dial and pulling down the crossbar.

They walked silently down the dimly lit tunnel, Derek up front taking long, impatient strides. At the end, another door awaited them, similar to the first one except locked from the other side. One glance up at the hidden security camera and the door buzzed open.

On the other side, the welcoming noise was always a scare if you spent too much time away from the Haven. A couple hours out in a deserted, noiseless metropolis could double as a year of solitude.

"Finally! It's almost sundown, we was'a gettin' worried." Bert walked up to the two men, giving Stiles a rub down the back. She turned to Derek to do the same, but he was already gone.

"Alright, wha'did y'a do this time?"

 

When the disease had erupted thirteen years before and the world went nuts, Bert had been the one to seek out deserted survivors, offering shelter and a motherly figure to those who so desperately needed it. The Haven had been her idea as the epidemic was growing and a bigger refuge was necessary. An old warehouse built 30 storeys above ground level was found after countless days of searching and was then transformed into, undoubtedly, the safest place on Earth. The entire building had been fortified from the inside, out, every entrance hidden and replaced by either impenetrable metal or industrial designed doors.

But, of course, that had been thirteen years before, and at age 53, Bert had passed over some of her authority to those who she trusted most. Lyra, now twenty-eight, was forever by her side. She had been the first of Bert's many rescues, and nothing had ever come between them. As one had lost a daughter and the other, a mother, they created an unbreakable bond. Derek was her undeclared second favourite, and she always consulted him on everything and anything, watching over him because he carried the weight of the entire community on his own shoulders.

Clint and Natasha occupied the rest of the leadership roles, being strong alone and even stronger together. They had travelled from Mexico to Chicago by foot, escaping the crash-landing of the last Boeing 777 200 to ever fly.

That, of course, had been back when walkers were scarce and only problematic in South and Central America, and everywhere else across the Atlantic. In one year, North America, with little to no desire in doing so, let 21 million refugees enter their borders. Six months later, the North American population went from 528 million, to 200 million when the virus could no longer be stopped, to 20 two months after that, and now, thirteen years later, those who still lived chose not to think of the human-to-zombie ratio.

The Haven counted two hundred and seven people, a number usually fluctuating do to new arrivals or, because of infection, deaths.

Surviving had been an enormous struggle the first few years, mainly because everyone was scared, unable to grasp the notion that what they knew and what they were used to had entirely come to an end.

Foraging for food had been a terrifying experience once the stocks had run out; finding medicine for the sick had been, and still was, a frustrating complication; learning every possible thing about the walkers had become one of the only forms of education.

Sometimes, when it was Stiles’ turn as Raider (as the assignment of searching for supplies was soon dubbed), he always made quick pace to find what was necessary and needed, which gave him enough time to detour to the Magnificent Mile, a street once bustling with life and people. Barely any walkers ever came to that part of the city, mainly because it was even more lifeless than they were. The public library had been destroyed, missing an entire wall from a probable blitz, and all the books from the first floor had been stolen to use as tinder during the winter.

The second floor, or what was left of it, still had three rows of comic books, and that was where Stiles found himself whenever he was allowed. 

The staircase was in a pile of rubble, so climbing was always a little tricky, even with all his years of practice. He would perch on a high windowsill, comic in his lap, and alternate between Wolverine and watching the street below for the tiniest signs of movement.

There was one thing that had gotten drilled into every survivors’ head: never put your guard down.

He’d often imagine himself as Scott Summers, fearless saviour of the world, wondering how this all would have happened if mutants existed. And then time would tick by too quickly, and the Sun would warn him to hurry back to the confines of the Haven where his family was waiting for him.

It was an unvoiced yet unanimous rule that no one under the age of fourteen could shut their eyes before everyone was back safe behind metal doors.

There were only about twenty kids in total, a number that declined as they grew older and most refused to have children; it wasn't safe, either for the mother or the child. Amongst them were Quinn and Onawa, both seven years old. They were born after the beginning of the apocalypse, small miracles and attempts at countering extinction. The wise Enapay, the father of Onawa and the last of both their parents, took Quinn in as his own and endlessly watched over both girls.

People cannot prevent themselves from protecting those that surround them, especially when it all comes down to survival. Bert refused to let anyone be egocentric, because, as she put it, “We all need’a be there for one another in times like these. ‘Specially in times like these. Don’t go being all ‘lone wolf’, we need you’s, and you need us.”

Stiles carried his bag to the kitchen where Clint was busy preparing supper; old canned peas and old canned peaches, with a side of old, stale almonds.

“Hey, kid, get anything good?”

“I haven’t seen good food in five years,” Stiles said, sliding over three jars of peanut butter and a bunch of canned meat.

Clint eyed the meat wearily, but shrugged when he remembered that it was _meat_ , something they didn't see that often.

“You did good. Mind plating some of this with me?”

The long table in the adjacent room began to fill with hungry, tired people. No one ever really got a break, always working on something to keep everything else going.

There was an empty seat next to Margaux, a strong and talented girl in the domain of blowing things up, but Stiles didn't think too much about it.

“You’re excused,” Natasha announced, gliding past both of them to pick up some plates. She arched her eyebrow at Stiles, nodding at two platters set aside, “Go eat, and bring Derek his meal.”

Clint gave him a look, one that mainly conveyed _I’m not saying you should do what she says, but do what she says_.

He exhaled exaggeratedly, knowing full well that he had no choice in the matter.

 

Derek wasn't on his cot, staring intently at the wall like he usually did, nor was he in the shop where most things broken were repaired.

From there, Stiles crossed out every place in the Haven with possible human activity, which only left the Study, where certain important books about health and healing were stored.

Derek was practically hunched over himself, reading a dusty, falling-apart-in-your-hands manual that Stiles couldn't determine the subject of.

He put Derek’s meal on a small table proximate to his spot on the floor, took a couple steps back, then attempted getting comfortable on the hard splintered wood.

The man in front of him didn't bother to look up, mainly because he'd known it was Stiles the minute he'd reached the doorway. He ignored him, though, intent on finishing whatever he had started.

It was a secret to no one that Derek felt things, blindly hidden and all too showing, for Stiles, things that no one, not even himself, could understand. The feelings somehow seemed to have been there from the beginning of it all. It was a subject barely ever approached, and Derek refused to say a word about it. He sometimes let it show in his words, in the expressions his deep set features would let slide and in the way he subconsciously watched over Stiles.

Stiles. on the other hand, was a complete asshole to Derek, which further baffled him on the presence of these feelings. Not that it bothered him, not like it used to.

He remembers some awful things said to Derek with barely any care of the latter’s emotional state, which had been dented pretty badly over the years.

He also remembers how none of his words ever seemed to affect Derek, because getting a reaction from him was a hardship of its own.

“Tom got the solar panels out back to work again,” he supplied, pushing soggy peas around on his plate. His appetite hadn't returned since his near face-to-face encounter with death earlier that day.

Still, his words incited no reaction.

Stiles wasn't all that surprised; he’d been a dick and Derek wasn't one to talk.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands over his knees impatiently. There was the tiniest presence of an apology at the tip on his tongue, but Stiles bit it down. No  _way_ was he going to break, not after all the other times he's gotten away with being an ass. 

He sat up straighter, mouth open and ready to say something moderately offending to get a reaction out of the guy, but said guy beat him to it. 

“You can leave if you want, Natasha won’t kill you.”

Derek was almost as good as Natasha at knowing everything. When he was thirteen, Clint and Natasha had started taking him with them on daily patrols and some Raider assignments, training him from a young age to be one of the strongest people, physically and psychologically, amongst the inhabitants of the Haven.

“Actually, she will. And either way, being here is better than having to watch Clyde pile fork-loads of food into his mouth while he explicitly recites every detail of how he managed to lift another 20 pounds.”

Truth was, he had no trouble looking away from Clyde as he ate, focusing rather on mapping out safe routes in his mind, but right then, he felt like he needed to stay by Derek. Oddly enough.

The guy needed company, be it by someone he hated or liked, or both.

They didn't bring up the earlier fiasco, which prevented them from arguing like every other time they were in each others company.

By seven o’clock, few words had been exchanged, except a non-verbal apology on Stiles’ behalf had been accepted and Derek no longer had to sit on his hands so prevent himself from doing something he might regret.

Bert’s smooth voice scratched through the handheld transceiver attached to Derek’s waist, announcing it was time to make rounds and seal off the Haven.

They parted ways at the door, Derek going off to the top floor while Stiles turned to the North wing, taking a look over his shoulder to make sure Derek wasn't still angry.

To assure complete lockdown, the Haveners were divided into eight groups, one for each floor of the building. Every precaution had been taken to protect those inside from those outside, nighttime being when walker activity was at its highest and most dangerous. They would venture in from all parts of Chicago and its surrounding cities, conglomerating around the urban district where the refuge just so happened to be.

Sometimes, by pressing your ear to the metal walls, you could faintly hear their moans and screeches, sounds so terrifying Stiles always slept with a pillow pressed to his ears.

Their hunger for human flesh heightened at dark and so did their senses, hence why no one was allowed out at night.

Stiles often ventured from one group to another during the lockdowns, mentally checking off every area possible. His stress often leveled up to anxiety and paranoia, because his worst fear was allowing the zombies a free entry to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

That night, he purposely walked past Derek’s bunk, quick enough to go unseen by the man reading squinty-eyed under the light of his flashlight. He couldn't exactly explain his actions, nor could he justify to himself a good enough reason for walking through a room at one side of the Haven when his bed was in another wing.

 

Wednesday started slowly, it being Stiles’ “day-off”. He hadn't been assigned as Raider that day, nor did he have chores to do around the building.

Work was mandatory for everyone, had been since the day Bert got the place going, because it kept things rolling and distracted from the whole zombie apocalypse situation.

He crossed another day off on the calendar he’d made the year before with his nearly dry black pen -his trusty black pen-, and counted the days until winter: 111.

Winter made things a little trickier, although it was never as bad as his first couple years hidden away in Toronto, Canada, when temperatures reached -40 and heating was scarce. Those many, many days had been torture, and he’d seen his fair share of frozen bodies and lost members to never want to have to go through it, or let anyone else go through it, ever again. Solar energy helped immensely; the power distributer stored extra energy and supplied them with just enough on dark, cold, stormy days. Stiles didn't like to think about all the lives they could’ve saved with their developed technology a couple years before.

That, of course, was something he didn't allow himself to think about for more than a minute. It never ended well, the panic attacks he dealt with in the confines of a closet or bathroom so no one would hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than ch.1 because it pretty much came to me when I was going to write something else. Im probably going to add to it when I wake up, too tired right now lol. Enjoy!!

There was always one job that became unanimously the worst in every rotational assignment situation. Sure, each had their own preferences and dislikes, but there was always that one that made you huff and sigh when knowing it was your turn.

Working this shift was no walk in the park, especially if, like Derek, it was impossible to work without full effort. The shift was from dawn 'til dusk. Little light shined in the basement. The heat, another negative upon many negatives, was harrowing. Might be why they called it a boiler room. Or why it was dubbed the Underworld.

The task consisted of piping and valve upkeep, heat exchange surveillance, electricity distribution depending on the time of day and machinery maintenance. All in all, you went in weary and pre-defeated and came out exhausted, in pain, bruised and filthy.

Every job at the Haven was learnt from a very young age, because growing up accustomed to trade was much easier than to learn it as an adult. It was a long list of things to know and things to avoid doing, but it was a necessity. Some, naturally, weren't bestowed talent in every domain, which led to slight hiccups every now and again in the routine. It took some to correct some.

Derek glanced up at the clock, wiping away sweat and dirt from where it had accumulated in the hollow of his eyes. Through the thin layer of grime covering the time, he noted that it was ten to six; forty more minutes of hell wouldn't be that difficult. Forty minutes of breathing stuffy air and avoiding to swallow the metal taste in his mouth.

The jammed valve he was yanking at ate away the rest of his time, and, before he knew it, hands clenching the hand wheel, arms strained and a heavy boot pushing off the bonnet, the siren gave a loud cry above his head.

Dorian, a woman that could also be a giant, stood with a halfhearted jump and dropped what she was doing to the ground.

“I envy the Swamps,” she declared, bringing up the rear of the rest of the workers practically jogging out of the boiler room. Frankly, working the sewage didn't seem all that bad.

The thought of his day being over was all Derek needed to put the rest of his strength into one final heave and loosen the wheel, sending a small cloud of hot vapour in his face.

Before leaving, he shut down the excess power for the night, all floors above and below the dorms and the kitchen, powering up the alarms at ground-level and turning the heat down a degree. Once, when the electricity had been left at its daytime settings during the night, the system short-circuited and the entire building was left unprotected for eight hours until someone noticed in the morning. Nothing had happened, but from then on it was sure to never slip again.

Down the hall from the boiler room was a cellar turned shower room. It smelled odd and wasn't particularly the most hygienic place in the Haven, but, boy, did he need a shower.

There was only one person left, Arthur, one of the older workers. He was taking his time, wincing as he slipped into his normal clothes. Derek thought it would be best to rethink an age limit to certain jobs.

He nodded at Arthur before ducking to the back of the room and into the only cabin he’d ever allow himself to use in that room, it being hidden from everything else. The moment the door was locked, he peeled off his clothes and turned on the water, ready to fall asleep then and there.

The muscles in his back were all knotted, refusing to relax no matter how many times he rolled his shoulders.

At times like these, Derek craved a real bed, plush pillows and soft covers. If he thought hard enough, he could vaguely remember what it felt like, how easy it used to be to fall asleep and wake up without odd aches here and there. His old mattress had cost his parents around 900$, a grand thing for a kid with a bad back.

Derek slipped under the jet and scrubbed away the black marks on his arms, hands and, somehow, shins, until his skin began to burn under the pressure.

Once out, drops running down his face, Derek wrapped his lower body in a raggedy towel that barely held together and padded out to where he’d stored his clothes that morning. He sat down on a bench, but forgot that he did so to get dressed and shut his eyes instead. Slowly, his head drooped and shoulders sagged. That heavy feeling was taking over, the one that pulls on your chin, on your eyelids and-

“Not the greatest idea to fall asleep here, I think.”

The sudden voice made Derek’s head snap back as if his face had been in water.

Not far to his right, Stiles was watching him with an odd look on his face, arms folded and leaning against the wall. A bin of laundry was stationed next to him, so Derek guessed he came to do the washing.

Derek looked down at himself, half naked and now dried-off. He didn't like the vulnerable feeling creeping up inside.

“Can you hurry up a bit? I gotta seal off this floor,” Stiles cocked an eyebrow, nodding towards the door.

“Yeah, give me a minute.”

When Stiles turned around, Derek quickly slipped into his clothes and toweled his hair, ignoring the hotness tinting the back of his neck. It was with pure austerity that he held back from turning around and making sure, for some inundated reason, that there weren't any amber eyes watching him.

He was just about to slip out without having to speak to, or look at, Stiles again, when the latter called after him.

“You've got stuff on your face. Grease or something.”

Which wasn't surprising due to his days' work, cleaning old machines that did everything to spite him. He tried to see his reflection in the lone mirror dangling from the wall, rubbing at his cheek blindly because the thing was too battered.

“It’s not- God,” Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes and reaching for Derek. He slipped between Derek and the wall, frankly too close if he was honest, which made him take a step back. “Stop squirming.”

 _Squirming_. Derek was _writhing_ under his skin, jaw set tight where Stiles was gripping his chin. He focused intently on a spot over his shoulder, because no way was he looking into the eyes of the guy right in front of him. Frozen in place, too nervous to move, breathing by his nose because he could _smell_ Stiles perfectly. Would it be inappropriate to lick his lips? A tad too late for that thought.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Stiles wiped away the streaks running across Derek’s face without realizing the discomfort he was putting him through. Or the tips of his ears burning pink. His stubble caught in the material, squishing his cheeks around and making him feel like a child who had somehow been outgrown by Stiles. How long had he been the taller one?

The moment Stiles mumbled a sarcastic _all gone_ , Derek was out of the room and already climbing the stairs two at a time in hopes of creating as much distance between him and the prickling feeling from where Stiles’ hand had been.

He felt a little pathetic being close enough to terrified of the spindly kid, but he couldn't help it. No matter how hard he tried, Derek could not get rid of the way Stiles made him feel. No words could explain it- no words were ever going to explain it. According to every possible scenario he's played in his mind, no outcome was better than keeping his mouth shut tight.

In the mess hall, he stumbled past Bert, managing to tell her he wouldn't be joining for diner and not to leave food aside for him. Before retreating to his room, he grabbed a pack of Saltines that wouldn't be missed, then jumped under the thin sheet on his bed and read until he could hear the walkers’ howls outside and his eyes watered and stung. A number far too large resumed the amount of nights he'd fallen asleep that way.

 

Ten years before, when the disease had completely spread and panic was less prominent, his family had managed to find the Haven, a place not many believed was real. They'd traveled in an old Chevrolet his father had found abandoned on the interstate, pushed forward by his mother's endless fuel of hope and stories of a monster-free city. He remembers how they had calmed down Cora, but himself, still only 12, had matured in too quickly and couldn't be as innocent as his younger sister.

A mile from the Haven, so close to safety, things had turned for the worst. It was the first time they'd come face to face with walkers, these so indifferent from humans that it had felt like a trap. Were there stages of undead? They hadn't known until his dad walked up to a little girl who almost looked as if she were crying. Almost. And then he noticed her gouged eye, yelling to his family to _Get in the truck, hurry!_ The walker girl, of course, had friends not far who were easily lured in by the shouts. In the end,  Derek wound up alone, the beginning of his torpid future years of solitude.


	3. Chapter 3

In the span of maybe two minutes, Stiles both touched Derek and scared him away. How was he supposed to know there was an unspoken boundary of personal space between the two of them? Cleaning his face had been an impulse act; the guy couldn’t get all the black dirt off of his face without a mirror, and Stiles wanted to get the job done so he could lock up and go eat.

He remembers the look on Derek’s face, one of deliberate neutrality that made him come across like he was trying too hard. Plainly, his eyes had focused on everything but Stiles’ own.

If this was supposed to be a sign of him having the upper hand, he couldn’t handle granting it true. The more he thought over his outweighing dominance, the more he regretted taking advantage of how he made Derek feel.

Yeah, sure, the latter’s feelings for him made no sense and made him uncomfortable, but who was he to try and understand another person’s brain.

He had all the intention of saying exactly so to Derek at the table, except he wasn’t there. The blame was all his, not that he’d necessarily wanted it to be. Then again, more so than not, he didn't always think over his acts before it was a tad too late.

When he was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen, he distinctly recalls saying, illiberally, that Derek should quit liking him because there was “no chance in hell I’d like you that way, man.”

The worst part? There was not an ounce of recollection of Derek’s reaction, probably because he didn’t give a shit if he’d hurt him in any way.

Boy, was he terrible.

 

The next day, he was assigned Scout. It was one of the lazier jobs, and one of his favourites. His plan for the day: find a nice, shady spot; store his gun as far away as would be safe (for himself and others); catch some rays.

Margaux, the girl who liked to blow things up, was on duty with him. She didn’t talk to him once, since she was surveying the East wall of the building and him, the West.

Evidently, he had the best view of the sunset.

And that was how he lost track of time, completely ignored Marg when she said their shift was over, too fixated on the rising oranges and purples. When he realized the time (when he noticed the sun was barely a sliver over the horizon), he jumped to his feet too quickly, heart beating up into his throat. Something clicked a little too late.

 _Where are the sounds? Where are the_ walkers _?_

Only then did he register the silence of the entire day. Sure, it wasn’t an abnormality as the dead-heads liked to explore away from the city. Except now it was sundown and there was no sign of movement, and Stiles was running from one edge of the roof to the other, frantically hoping he simply wasn't seeing right.

He’d seen that before, had seen it so many times in the early stages of the apocalypse. Only one thing could lure the walkers away at night: a meal.

Fingers like sticks, he emptied his pockets, then threw the contents of his bag on the ground and dropped to his knees, scrambling to get his binoculars. Of all the things he decided to leave behind.

He _needed_ to validate his obvious blindness.

Unwilling to cause a stirrup, Stiles held back the sprint he so wanted to do all the way down the halls, to his cot and back, favouring a rapid walk and a grimace to hide the sweat pooling down his neck and back. Barely anyone was in the dorms, or in the halls, so he managed to get back to his post practically unseen.

Two long inhales and a spit over the ledge later, feet planted firmly on the smooth rooftop, he raised the lenses to his eyes and searched. High and low, left and right, all around the Haven.

Nothing. Absolutely n-o-t-h-i-n-g.

If anything, this should’ve come as a tidbit of excellent news for someone subject to the Armageddon. Omit Stiles, easily worried, scared Stiles. The chance that human beings were out there, followed, maybe even unknowingly, by thousands of walkers was a slim one. Most likely was it an animal, a couple of animals, an animal-like sound or smell.   _But what if there are people out there._ It was impossible for him to leave that unconsidered.

A quick check of his watch told him that it was still supper time, and that most everyone was down in the mess hall.

His second trip down to his bed was much more rushed this time, slightly messier. He grabbed his stash of emergency snacks, yanked on a thicker sweater, strapped a holstered belt around his waist and slid two daggers into the slits he’d added by his jips. His gun was still on the roof, although he really didn’t like using it.

His throat was dry and hurt the faster he ran up the two floors to the roof, but he couldn’t stop the drive in him to get wherever he had to go as soon as possible and make sure no one was in need of help.

Along the wall of the eighth floor of the Haven, an emergency stock of ladders, axes, flares and anything else useful was laid out. Stiles grabbed a rope without stopping and flung himself at the door. Only his hand never reached the handle. Before he knew it, his backpack was strained against his shoulders, a choked sound that was meant to be a foul string of words coming from his mouth instinctively.

“Stiles, what do you think you’re doing?”

At the sound of the voice behind him, Stiles quit his struggling immediately and crossed his arms. _Guardian devil-angel, be gone._

Calmly, he gritted, “I’m in quite a hurry, if you haven’t noticed. Now, if you please…” He shook his bag around, but Derek held on firmer.

“If you think you’re going to ‘investigate’, think twice. You aren’t the only one who’s noticed.”

Stiles couldn’t tell if it was Protective Derek speaking or Authority Derek. It was getting more and more difficult to tell the difference.

“Look, I’m not just going to sit back and let someone get killed out there!” Derek opened his mouth to protest, so Stiles quickly added, “ _If_ there are people out there. I don’t know any more than you do, but I’m going anyway.”

An inner self-battle went on briefly behind Derek’s eyes, although he knew there was no way of convincing Stiles differently.

“If you go, I go,” he stated, watching the way Stiles huffed out a laugh.

“No way, man-”

“So you’d rather let Bert find you missing herself and send out an entire search party after you? How would you feel putting all those people in danger?”

Now that had gotten to him. The consequences of him leaving after curfew never came to mind, not in his haste. No way would she send people out if Derek was missing too; she trusted him enough to see him back in the Haven the next day.

He didn’t have to voice his unhappy ‘fine’, letting his silence tell Derek that he’d won. Uttering a ‘Don’t move an inch’ over his shoulder, Derek left him.

He didn’t even bother to escape while he was gone, knowing far too well that the distance he’d create between them wouldn’t last excessively long. The older man was the best tracker they had.

 

Stiles was sitting his back against the wall when Derek returned dressed similarly to his own attire, except his weapon of choice was a bow and he looked a tad cooler. Not that he had to know.

They marched up to the roof and across a suspended metal bridge that the Haven's rooftop to the adjoining building.

To facilitate movement away from the danger below, the bridges had been built as a way of always being able to get around.

It creaked as the two walked across, hinges straining under their joined weight. Derek led the way, refusing to let Stiles take the lead when he suggested it. His hard glare stayed fixed on the back of Derek’s head, watching small beads of sweat trickle down down his neck. He could tell Derek was nervous, same as himself, but he kept moving forward without hesitation.

They reached the next roof, ducking under large satellite dishes that supplemented the Haven in power all year round.

From there, the next rooftop wasn’t connected, being too low to link safely. Instead, an iron ladder parallel to the wall of the building was installed, leading to the street below. However, to descend, the climber needed the safety of a harness; one missed footing or a slipped grip would end in definite death from that altitude.

While Derek worked swiftly at pulling the gear out of his backpack and hooking himself up, Stiles pulled out his hand-drawn map of the city, something he’d worked on for seven years.

It was very detailed and a secret pride of his.

Figuring out which direction to head was a long-shot of guesses, although he presumed that logic pointed to going South, somewhere around the intersection of Highway 290 and 94. It was the way most people took to get into the city, from what he could recall.

Putting his things away, he stepped into his own harness, and tugged at random at the waist belt because he wasn't exactly certain how to put in on. When Derek grabbed the belt, just a little too quickly in exasperation, Stiles felt like stepping away because  _I can do this myself._ But they were in a rush and getting into an argument was the last thing he wanted so he obeyed, contrary to the nasty voice of his ego.

They were standing too close together, Derek's black hair grazing his chin, Stiles' feet center to Derek's wide stance. He passed the cord through Stiles' buckles and fastened everything tight, making sure that the knot tying them together was the strongest. He worked quickly, and all Stiles could do was stand there and watch his hands.

One after the other (after Derek assured the functionality of their carabiners twice), they took to the ladder. Stiles had a slight case of acrophobia, but his mind didn't stray too long on that thought; it had other things to worry about.

He went first because he was the bravest. Or, as Derek put it, “If you fall, there’s a better chance that I’ll be able to hold you up.” Both were valid points.

The descent was tiring and Stiles had to call up a couple times to ask for a break. While they rested, he explained his plan and Derek sounded his agreement with throated hums. Oh, how Stiles wanted to punch the guy on the tibia. How could someone speak so little?

After an eternity of watching Derek’s backside- although he had to admit it wasn't the worst he’d ever had to endure- and ducking away from his bow that swung loosely near his head, they reached ground level. They landed in a small alley that had only one entrance, the other blocked off by a brick wall installed to avoid attracting people- or  _undead_ people- to the higher passes.

“Do you need to rest before we get going again?” Derek asked, tying the cord to the ladder.

Stiles stood up a little straighter, because although he was worn out, their purpose couldn’t wait.

“No, we shouldn’t stop anymore from here to Greektown.”

Derek was hesitant in following Stiles, who didn’t look as ready as he wanted to sound. When the younger of the two reached the brick wall and hauled himself over it, Derek sighed and headed after him.

The barrier stood about two meters tall and separated the alley from a parking garage on the other side. Although ramshackle and slightly destroyed, the car park was where they hid the few cars kept in case of far travels or of evacuation.

Stiles was already starting the engine of a mud covered Jeep Wrangler by the time Derek joined him, tapping his fingers on the wheel and fidgeting in his seat.

A plus side of living in a world with absolutely no laws: Clint taught him how to drive.

The moment Derek hopped into the passenger seat, they tore out of the garage and onto the Magnificent Mile, bypassing the front of the Haven to avoid any attention. It wasn’t everyday that people around there saw cars speeding by.

 


	4. Chapter 4

At the start of an intersection, Stiles’ foot pressed hard on the brakes and his right arm jutted out across Derek’s chest so his head wouldn't smack the dashboard. Seat belts weren't that much of a given anymore.

He heard the back tires lock into place, the front ones jerking to stillness and giving off a distinct smell of burning rubber before coming to a halt, swinging the jeep back and forth on its worn-out shocks.

He’s two steps ahead of the surprised comment Derek is ready to make, eyebrows raised and finger already pointing to a small bump in the road a couple meters ahead. The only reason he’d noticed it was because he’d thought it was a pothole, something that would do nothing to help the poor condition of the car.

It took a moment for the man next to him to understand why they weren't moving forward anymore, but when he caught on, he reached behind him to grab his bow and jumped out of the car. Stiles followed, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

And then Stiles jogged a little faster, because an arrow was being pulled taut and aimed before he’d even had the chance to blinked.

“Derek, wait a second,” Stiles whispered, although he didn't really have to.

It did nothing to take Derek’s guard down, so he placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, just enough to take him out of the haze of hatred that came over most people when they saw a walker.

This walker, by definition, was actually a crawler; also exactly what he had been looking for.

They were slow and pretty harmless, unless you got a tad too close. Sliced in half by some oddity or another, they pulled themselves along with their hands. Nasty things up close, oozing liquids coming out of their severed half and insides dragging along behind.

Under his palm, he could feel Derek relax, so he pushed down his weapon and explained, “This thing is a direct lead to wherever we have to go. It’s alone, but it’s joining the others and pointing us in the right direction.” And it was heading in the direction of interstate 290, just as he’d presumed.

The crawler had slowly noticed their presence, although neither bothered to hurry back to the jeep. It moaned low and brokenly, more dead than most walkers.

“Keep that bow ready, I think we might need it,” he said, sliding back behind the wheel.

As they drove along, keeping the speed down in case they’d miss something, Stiles went over every tidbit of information he’d learned over the years about walkers. Strange as it was to say, he had never actually killed one. The ones that he always came into contact with looked too human-like, or maybe he simply wasn't able to shoot the things. Good thing he was a decent runner.

 

It wasn't very difficult to spot the mass of zombies, all crowded around the front side of mall on the outskirts of Greektown. They hadn't heard the jeep approaching because of their own racket, but Stiles backed up until they were hidden behind a building. It was unclear from their angle, but Stiles was almost sure the place was boarded up from the inside.

He turned to Derek with wide eyes, expecting him to take control of the situation from there on out. What was he supposed to do with a couple hundred walkers?

Without words, they agreed that whatever they were looking for was inside the mall, seemingly safe for the time being.

“They’re gonna break through the glass soon,” Stiles observed, clearing his throat. His confidence was slowly seeping away the more he sweat.

“Well, all the more reason to do this quickly. It’s your call.”

His call.

No way was he going to turn to mush in front of Derek, of all people. Putting the car into gear, he said decidedly, “We’ll double around to the back and find an entrance there. You’ll stay out and guard from the car and I’ll go check inside.”

“Stiles, we should stick together-”

He shook his head, pressing his lips together tightly.

“No, someone has to make sure we’re safe from the outside, and we both know you've got the better shot. Trust me on this one.”

He knew Derek did, like always, but he needed to assure himself that he wasn't completely losing it from the stress.

The tires crunched over dried dirt and brown grass as they cut through a patch of field which still had a ‘For Sale’ sign dangling near the road. The detour was a long arc away from the front of the mall, all the way to the lot in back, littered with abandoned cars and shopping carts.

“Okay,” he breathed out, parking the jeep halfway on the sidewalk, “You take my seat. Whatever moves, you shoot.”

 _Asshole_ , he thought, because Derek looked as if he was second-guessing his agreement to separating.

Hand on his holstered gun, Stiles walked up to the sliding doors which, he soon realized, weren't going to open with his small arms the only things to pry it open. Along the wall he strode, pushing and pulling on every board he crossed to see if it’d come loose. None of them did, but he spotted a large airway vent just above a dumpster that looked rather promising.

Hauling himself atop of it- with little difficulty keeping a steady balance- he examined the possible entrance. It looked about as crumby as everything else in the city, not to mention something that Stiles was very familiar with. When he was a kid, crawling around the air vents and spying on adult conversations was his favoured game.

A couple jams with the butt of his gun had the rusted-dry screws break from their hold, making the rest easy enough for Stiles to pull the grate out and place it soundlessly on the dumpster by his feet.

He slide his gun into the dark passage then stood on his toes to get his arms up and over the edge. His feet dangled until his elbows reached the opposite sides of the tunnel, securing a good enough grip to inch forward until he was completely inside. A tad tighter a squeeze than he remembered.

Stiles used one forearm after the other to inch forward, pushing his gun ahead of him each time with his fist, delving into practical blindness. One push to many sent the weapon crashing to the floor, scaring the living hell out of Stiles enough to hit his head on the metal above him. His eyes were only now starting to adjust to the darkness, focusing in on the shadow up ahead where the shaft came to an abrupt end.

The further he went, the more it creaked, the slower he advanced. Once his head popped out of the hole, he realized with feeling fingers that it hadn't been broken but merely unfastened from the next piece which, if he squinted hard enough, he could see it lying on the floor.

At least he hadn't fallen with that portion of the tunnel.

No way could he reach the other end of the tunnel, a two meter gap separating them.

_Looks like this is where I get off._

How exactly he planned to get down safely, he had no idea. The place was so cramped, he thought it would be impossible to get his feet in front of him. Unless, of course, he wanted to dive head-first into the very dark room below.

Head bent forward, chin practically crushing his collarbone, he twisted onto his back and into a semi sitting position, using the top of the metal shaft to push the upper half of his body forward and turn his bottom half around, like an axis. His elbows popped a couple times from the unnatural position they had to sustain and no way should his leg be bent the way it was, but he managed to get his two limbs out the hole, falling onto his back with an exaggerated sigh. Not that he could rest for long.

Switching back onto his stomach, Stiles lowered himself into the open, using his folded arms as his hold on the lip of the tunnel. He swung his feet around, pointing his toes until they grazed the fallen section he was looking for.

With nothing but delicacy, he landed with a thud, denting the metal under his feet.

The flashlight he always carried in his belt flickered on, revealing what appeared to be a clothing store, frozen in time and completely untouched. He spotted the wide exit to his right and hurried out, picking up his gun on the way.

The place was eerie as any other old boarded-up mall, and it was something to say Stiles was used to the feeling.

“Anyone in here?” he risked, standing completely unmoving to hear the faintest of sounds.

“I… I’m human.”

What else was he supposed to say?

“If someone’s here, please hurry your ass up if you want to live!”

His voice echoed throughout the building, bouncing off every wall and, frankly, creeping Stiles out more than it should.

The next time he opened his mouth, only a whisper came out, “Please hurry.”

He counted sixty seconds, one long minute, until he couldn't wait any longer. He didn't feel too good waiting in there any longer, and he didn't feel any better leaving Derek outside with all the walkers. For all he knows, they could be on to him at that moment.

With a sigh he flashed his light upwards, reading off the faded signs where the exit, the one he’d parked right in front of, would be; right around the corner.

“Wait!”

The voice came out of nowhere, like a void had opened and closed just for that one sound.

Stiles stood still as could be once again, willing his heart to shut up a little.

Then there came the sound of running footsteps coming from the hall he’d just turned away from, and it sounded like they belonged to more than one person.

Two black figures appeared, then three, all approaching at a fast pace. Instinctively, Stiles gripped the gun at his hip.

“Please wait,” the voice came again, this time almost frantic.

The figures started to get faces, and Stiles could finally make out two adults, male and female, and a young girl. They ran right up to him, all clustered together and staring at Stiles as if he wasn't real.

The woman spoke up, grabbing Stiles’ arm and shaking it slightly, “Thank goodness. We thought this was where it ended for us.”

Her words dripped with worry and something like incredulity, and he could only nod.

From deeper in the building, a loud crack resounded, followed by the shattering of glass, making all their heads snap to that direction.

“We need to get out of here, right now,” Stiles managed to vocalize, giving each of them a quick look before taking off towards the exit at a run. He hadn't noticed until then that the girl had been crying, made more obvious as she struggled to breathe evenly as she ran.

Stiles spotted the boarded door right around the corner and sprinted to it, tearing at the wood the second he reached it. The man, who hadn't spoken at all, was next to arrive and joined Stiles with just as much energy. They managed to yank away the plank nailed diagonally across and plowed through the next, kicking it and splintering it in half.

“Mom, they’re coming!” the girl cried, sending a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

He looked over his shoulder only quick enough to see the woman facing the hallway, gun held firmly out, ready to shoot.

With one last joined pull, the last board broke from its hold and fell to the ground. Each man grabbed the door, prying it open enough for one person to pass.

“Angela!” the man yelled, and the woman grabbed her daughter’s hand and ran out the opening with her.

Stiles motioned for the man to go next, sliding his foot between the two doors once he was out.

Behind him, he could hear the angry, hungry walkers coming right for him.

With every ounce of strength left in him, he extended both arms, pushing the doors open and jumping through. They slammed with a loud crack behind him, and then the first walker slammed into it.

And then another and another and another. And all he could do was watch.

His feet were frozen in place, disconnected from his brain desperately telling them to _move_.

The familiarity of the situation started to cloud over his thoughts, turning off every function and leaving him to watch dumbly as body after body slammed into glass, wanting so badly to break through and kill him.

When the glass first splinted, he flinched. When it cracked for the second time, a hand wrapped around his bicep and pulled him away. Maybe his feet cooperated, maybe they didn't, but all he could see was complete fear in the eyes of the person in front of him.

Stiles couldn't make out the words coming out of Derek’s mouth, wondering why everything was so silent all of a sudden.

He snapped out of it when he reached the jeep, the heat of the moment catching up with him in one big gust through his lungs. All the sounds around him burst in his ears at once: gunshots from the man and woman as they took out walkers that had come around from the front of the building; the little girl crying with her hands covering her ears; the shop doors bursting open; Derek starting up the jeep, putting it into gear at lightning speed and asking Stiles if he’s okay.

He nodded stiffly for the last part, just as they lurched out of the parking lot. Just as the walkers were starting to reach the car.

He shook his head, _Wake up, wake up, wake up_ , and aimed his gun with shaking hands, positioning himself on his knees and leaning on the structure beam across the top of the jeep to steady himself.

He shot without really knowing where, but certain he was hitting the undead.

They sped across the field and back onto the interstate, drifting at every turn because no way was Derek going to hit the brakes at any point.

The walkers ran after the car with loud moans and shrieks, and this time Stiles aimed his gun right at a howler’s head; he got it right between the eyes.

The distance was growing between them and their pursuers, so Stiles flopped down in his seat and the two adults tossed their guns to the floor, pulling their daughter tightly into their lap.

He could feel Derek’s worried gaze on the side of his face, so he turned his head and looked out to his right at the buildings flying by.

The went straight for Grant Park, keeping to the water’s shore and elongating their trajectory as much as possible just in case they had any more pursuers.

As crazy as it seemed, Stiles wanted to go to sleep. Except he couldn't, not when those images would stick to his eyelids, making them flash back open just as quickly.

Twenty minutes of driving brought them back to where he and Derek had started off that night, in the busted up parking garage. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting hues of pink and orange over every surface and making Stiles all that more tired.

They all got off the jeep, Derek helping the family to the main entrance of the Haven, a heavy metal door hidden behind fallen pillars. The door opened right as they walked up to it, a few people hurrying out to aid the three survivors. It was probably scaring them more than anything.

While grabbing his backpack from the back seat and sliding Derek’s bow over his head, he watched as the man answered questions from one of the guards on duty, shaking his head at others, and then motion for him to go inside.

He took that as his cue to get in, too.

Derek waited for him, holding the door open patiently.

Just as Stiles brushed past him, Derek asked, “You okay?”

Over his shoulder, Stiles answered a halfhearted, “You've asked me that about a hundred times.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

All night he lay awake, eyes focusing on a dent he’d made a couple years before when he had jumped just a little too excitedly onto his cot. Mind empty, throat dry, feet clammy because of the socks he desperately wanted to take off without having to move.

Twice during the night, as quiet as a mouse, Bert had come to check in on him. She would sit at the edge of his bed, run her fingers through his hair and rub circles on his stomach.

It was something she’d done almost every night when Stiles was a terrified kid who’d just lost his father and couldn’t for the life of him chase away his recurring nightmares.

From the door frame, like the shadow of a door, Stiles knew Derek waited on Bert, unable to sleep because Stiles wasn’t okay.

He felt awful for keeping both of them up after such a draining incident.

The third time Bert popped in, he wished to tell them to go to sleep. Yet his mouth was too dry for words and a part of him- the main, selfish part of him- wanted them to stay.

He wrapped himself in the soft blanket Bert had brought him, tugging it all the way up to his chin.

Finally, he managed to shut his reluctant eyes and find a steady breath. Dropping in and out of consciousness, he thought of the weight by his side and its heaviness, a gentler hand brushing over his forehead. It was odd how, just as he was nodding off, his senses seemed to heighten. The scent coming from the body by his side was distinct and comforting, and it gave him hope that he wouldn't have bad dreams.

 

Over the next few days, Stiles watched from the security of his covers as life bustled on in the Haven as it always did. The dorms were deserted during the day, his only interactions coming down to those who came to check in on him or bring him food.

Once, right as he was getting up to wee, the woman he and Derek had rescued walked up to him. It was the first time he’d actually gotten a good look at her, since the other occasion demanded other things than looking at her face. She was around her late thirties, dark-skinned and strong-boned. Her face was soft yet stern, and it made him think of her with her gun, pointing it towards the walkers and protecting her daughter.

The little one was right behind her, as he soon noticed, although she was too shy to come out of hiding.

“Just the man we was’a looking for,” she said, an accent much like Bert’s rolling off her tongue. “I'm Elyse, thought it was time we was properly introduced. My husband wanted to come thank you too, but he had’a sit down with that nice ol’ lady and talk some things over.”

She stepped aside and pushed her daughter forward, urging her to look at Stiles.

“Devon here has somethin’ for you. Don’t y’a Dee?”

The little girl looked up timidly with her big brown eyes, smiling just enough to show off her missing front tooth. She held up some papers, darting back behind her mother the moment Stiles took them.

“She really wanted y’a to have those. We’d be delighted to have your company at dinner tonight, if you’d like to join us.”

She smiled so genuinely Stiles felt guilty for looking like he hadn’t showered in days. He thanked them, making sure to get the little Devon’s attention and wave goodbye to her.

Maybe it would do him some good to join the rest of the crowd for a meal. But first, a wee and a shower.

 

 

Dinner was weird. Weird as in no one looked at him as if they hadn't seen him in a week, which was pretty much the case.

They lifted their eyes from their meal long enough to smile at him or briefly tell him was happened that day, nothing more.

He slid into the chair next to Elyse, empty as if they knew for sure he would join them.

Her husband was beside her and extended a hand to Stiles warmly, the other grabbing his shoulder in a way he could sense was pure sincerity. 

"Glad you could join us, son," he smiled.

Natasha appeared behind him, placing a hot plate of black beans and corn in front of him and kissing the top of his head. Stiles took his time before eating, nevermind the demands of his stomach, looking at every face at the table surrounding him. Everyone was smiling, chatting away like any other family would. His gaze lingered at the other end of the table on a relaxed-looking Derek discussing something with Mike, the Haven's head doctor.

He definitely had to give Derek the minimum of a thank you. Or maybe handfuls of gratitude for everything he'd ever done for Stiles, which was admittedly a lot.

His dislike for him had stemmed way back when he'd discovered Derek's feelings. It was one of the worst reasons in the book to hate someone, but he was young and the notion of sexuality was something he'd tried to avoid at all costs.

To his left, Devon tugged at his sleeve, staring wide-eyed at her somehow empty plate.

"More?" she whispered, her hesitation making Stiles' heart sink. She probably hadn't eaten properly in days.

"You can have all the food you want tonight," he said, scooping a decent amount of corn from the bowl in the middle of the table onto her plate. Devon squirmed in her seat, jumping up and down and licking her lips all the way to her nose.

The kid ate with her hands. Stiles could tell Elyse wanted to tell her off, but both of them held back from intervening at the sight of her hunger.

 

 

After dinner, everyone lingered in the couch-filled room adjacent to the mess hall, pulling out faded card decks and starting a game of charades. Stiles took the distraction of everyone else to his advantage and flopped into a torn - and horribly patched up - leather armchair far off from where everyone was gathered, closing his eyes tiredly. It didn't take long before Lyra found him, followed by some of his friends. 

They dove into a deep conversation about the best way to tease a walker, asking Stiles his opinion every once in a while to make sure he was still awake. He would supply a couple nods of agreement, a short explanation of how it was impossible to tease something that had nothing to tease, but he didn't pay much attention afterwards. 

He ended up staring at Derek's strong profile the entire evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the super short chapter but i haven't updated in so long! i'll probably fix it up/add to it sometime this weekend, maybe even post another chapter xx


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles convinced Bert to let him join the Raiders about to leave for their morning rounds, assuring her that he was feeling a lot better.

Although he wasn't so sure how he would react if he saw a walker, he was tired of staying holed up in the Haven.

He left with Lyra, sticking by her side the entire time, and Clint, Dorian, Trevor and Melissa.

"We were thinking of going down to the old port to check out the storage lockers. You know the ones?"

Stiles nodded, adjusting the straps of his backpack.

"I've always wanted to see what was in those."

The six of them went by foot, following the tunnels linking the basements of almost every building along the street. The walk was long and dark, their only means of light coming from the two flashlights Melissa and Dorian held. Stiles kept his eyes along the dirt ground, picturing the expanse of the tunnels in his mind by way of distraction.

After twenty minutes, the tunnel came to an end, a ladder branching upwards through the floor of the last building on the block. Back when the tunnels were created, an incident involving three deaths stopped any plans of further digging under roads; the soil was much less stable and weighed heavy on any support beams that had tried to hold it up.

The room above used to be a bank, from what Stiles remembered. Nothing was left of it, gone to the dogs when people started freaking out and thought money would be useful in an apocalypse. All the windows were boarded up, sealed like those of the Haven for people to travel unseen through the city. The door had been replaced with one of pure steel, heavy and impossible for a walker to open from the outside. 

Trevor, a tall thin man with porous skin and clothes hanging loosely off of his frame, unlocked the mechanism and cracked the door open, surveying the street as one by one the Raiders crossed to the other side, staying low and holding tightly on to anything that could rattle. The automatic bolted-lock sounded deafening in the empty avenue when Trevor pulled it shut behind him.

Opening the safeway doors from the outside was a much trickier task, since they weren't really supposed to open. A long aluminium rod had to be inserted into a hole at eye level, barely visible amid the beaten up patches of the door, and bent just the right way to unhitch a small latch inside.

While Trevor busied away at the task, the five others stood facing outwards, guns and bows and knives held out at the ready.

Stiles' two daggers shook in his hands and wouldn't quit no matter how hard he gripped them or how rigid he made his muscles.

Lyra's gun appeared at the edge of his vision, pointing across his shoulder down the street, and she said almost soundlessly, "Down the street, to your left."

His eyes darted to where she directed, head remaining completely still; a lone walker ambled across the intersection, eyes glazed over and searching emptily along the sky. It hadn't noticed them yet.

"No one shoots," Clint's voice carried, "Not unless it's completely necessary.

They all nodded at his order.

Trevor was unfazed by what was just meters away, keeping his full attention locked on the rod in his hands.

Clint slowly slipped between Stiles and Dorian, making sure his movement would go undetected as he placed himself at the front of the group.

The five of them watched the zombie almost incredulously, wondering why it hadn't at least picked up on their scent. Stiles took in its missing arm and pierced cheeks, able to see right through its face.

It kept repeating the same movement, flicking its head to the right and throwing its remaining arm outwards. Stiles counted eight head flicks and eleven arm throws before its dead eyes eventually found his own. It paused, then started to shamble towards the group, slow paces accelerating with each step.

Clint's bow strained, arrow pointed right at the thing. Melissa pulled on the barrel and loaded her gun, standing just as steady as Clint.

Trevor didn't bother staying quiet as he said, "I got it, now get that thing out of here!"

As if sensing one another's thoughts, Clint shot for the throat and Melissa, for the brain. Stiles winced and shut his eyes at the sound of metal puncture skin, letting Lyra pull him quickly through the door and into the darkness on the other side.

 

The lockers were rusted from top to bottom, stock-still on a barren beach that stretched North and South for miles. Anything that had once been around, like tables and small canteens, was long gone, blown away by the unforgiving wind trained to the shore.

Missiles had destroyed the few buildings that used to line to water - failed government attempts at taking out the growing population of walkers in Chicago -  leaving even more room for the gusts to reach almost alarming speeds.

Each kept a firm grip on their hood, pulling it down tightly, knowing all too well how much it hurt to be whipped by sand at 60 mph.

While the five adults worked away on the first storage shed, Stiles walked down past a few until he found one with the smallest spot of what looked to be blue paint just below the lock.

Breaking the chain was difficult, especially with small pliers, but he managed quick enough and slipped inside to get out of the wind. The walls almost seemed soundproof, blocking out the howling winds from the other side.

Stiles turned on his flashlight, watching the beam light up his battered sneakers and then darting it quickly across the room. The thing was packed to the ceiling, brown boxes piled upon brown boxes piled upon furniture.

The locker rattled from side to side, shaking dust and rust from the ceiling and onto his hood.

He scanned the contents of the first few boxes laying at his feet, most filled with moth-eaten clothes and faded magazines from years before. He picked out a few of the less damaged ones, stuffing them away in his bag to read up on the past world when he got back.

Sorting things was a long process, and, at some point, Lyra slipped inside to help him look. What they found wasn't anything too interesting: a revolver that was probably already an antique before it got stored; some wires that hadn't rusted from the inside; a sealed package of utensils; an emergency kit containing three flares, some tape and a couple utility knives.

They joined the others in the largest of the storage lockers, separating all their findings equally by weight into each backpack. Clint gave Stiles an eye roll when he saw the magazines, but didn't comment.

They followed the same way back to the Haven, this time sticking very closely to the walls and shadows when out in the open. The sun was turning everything orange and Stiles' watch was telling him it was fair time they got in.

Each opening of a sealed door above ground brought a nauseous feeling to his stomach, although he tried to reason with himself that the undead waylay the week before couldn't have freaked him out _that_ much.

When the last safeway door shut behind them, making the rest of the way to the Haven purely underground, Stiles broke apart from the group and went his own way, turning right at a fork as his five companions went left.

He took his time wandering down the now green lit tunnels, stopping here and there to check on pipes protruding from the walls and re-screwing flickering light bulbs. 

At the end of the path, a large metal door featuring a red line spray-painted straight across indicated the eastern entrance to the Haven basement, but Stiles wasn't all that ready to go in yet. Just off to its side, a small room - or more likely a hole in the wall - had been constructed to serve as a lunchroom for those who were on tunnel surveillance duty.

Stiles grabbed a spare lantern from under the plastic table, one of the only things in the room, and lit it, setting it in front of him to illuminate the magazines he'd taken.

They were all from the National Geographic, and he could just remember his dad having this enormous pile of them stacked beside his bed.

Some pages ripped as he turned them, and some words were erased due to humidity and age, but he could still make out the major part of each photograph.

Pictures of animals made him stare longer, wondering the last time he'd seen something as simple as a deer or where they had all gone. Most animals had been much more intelligent than humans, escaping the moment before everything turned for the worst.

The time passed quickly, although Stiles had barely moved an inch since he first sat down. He only noticed his prolonged sit-down when the flame of his lantern gave out, all the oil gone.

Lighting it back up should have been a smart thing to do, except his eyelids were drooping and his neck was stiff, so he leaned onto the table and hid his face in the crook of his folded arms. The plastic chair creaked, and he sighed.

 

He jolted awake when the distinct sound of a walkie talkie squelch and hiss came from beside him and Derek's relieved voice said, "It's okay Bert, I found him."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to put it out there that i reached 1000 hits!! (im a little too giddy atm)

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is mspeggyc.tumbr.com if ever you wish to get in contact with me or find out when i'm updating the next chapter :)


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